Rattled
by Victoria Quynn
Summary: Another town, another incident.


Rattled

That night, time stood still, and our world stopped.

We had just arrived in town and didn't know the sheriff. It looked like a nice enough place. I got a hotel room while my partner took the horses to the livery. After settling in, we decided to clean up before sampling what the town had to offer. The trail dust was thick and the bath house down the street. It's almost like a baptism every time: the grime gives way to clean, in body and mind, and the spirit is lightened. We both seem to think clearer when we're not carrying around a few extra pounds of dirt.

Being flush from our last delivery job for the Colonel, we dropped our trail clothes off with the laundress and headed to the café. I was feeling particularly generous for some reason, so the steak dinners were on me. I told Kid he could take care of the cigars and drinks later. We ate heartily, even took time for a nice bottle of wine. Foraged game over a campfire is fine for the trail, but in town we hope to leave the roughness behind. Civilization is about the finer things, the more gentle ways.

Speaking of gentle, after an unhurried supper, we moseyed over to the nearest watering hole. The establishment had an air of genteelness about it, or at least as much as a gambling hall and saloon could. The fairer sex seemed more carefree and not as hard as in some places we've come upon, almost like they had to meet certain requirements of respectability to work there. The ones who served us seemed pretty smart, and you'd think they'd have made a good living as schoolteachers and led a respectable life. It's doubtful the more respectable ladies in town would consider these saloon creatures on a par with them, but they might one day if they met the right man. One who came over was able to discuss the finer points of poker with me and when prompted even gave us a rundown on the different dealers. This one I could be interested in – if the time ever came where I could consider settling down, that is.

So, after a bit of relaxation and watching the various tables, a couple of spots opened up at one table in particular. The players seemed friendly enough, and the dealer fair. Kid and me, well, we have an arrangement when we play the same game. We communicate silently between us, and no one's ever the wiser. If he's dealt what looks like a winning hand, he'll let me know, and depending on mine, I'll fold or let him know mine's also got possibilities. But if both of us think we have what it takes to win, we'll draw and see what the extra cards reveal. We also want to make sure no one suspects either of us, so we'll take turns winning and losing and letting the other players win a few – but just a few, if I can help it.

We're amiable sorts too, although some might have trouble with that notion. After all, even though we're doing our damndest to stay out of trouble to get amnesty when the governor deems it politically expedient, we are wanted men. The bounties have swelled over time to $10,000 apiece, wanted dead or alive. The most successful outlaws in the history of the West, we've been called. Yes, I admit to being a genius and Kid is probably the fastest draw out there, but we're still just men who want to go straight. Of course, Kid has to hide the fact that he's as good as he is, often with reminding from me, so when he has to pull out a gun when others are around, Thaddeus Jones tries to be an okay shot, but nothing special. Truth be told, I'm no slouch either, but Joshua Smith rarely pulls a gun. Smith does the thinking, and the other fella follows along. Kid might tell it differently, though.

So back before I took off on that tangent, like I said, we were at this table, and the conversation flowed. We had a banker, a couple of ranchers, and the owner of the general store, all apparently successful and leading citizens of this town. We told them we were retired from the banking and railroad business and now served as security consultants. Well, it's not exactly true, maybe, but not technically a lie, either.

The drinks flowed and play continued. Talk of business turned to more personal matters. One gent had just sent his son off to college back East, while another allowed how he hoped to win enough to augment the dowry for his daughter, who was due to marry the mayor in the next couple of weeks. Kid gave me that steely-eyed gaze of his when I began as to how my partner had once or twice found himself almost married to a mayor's daughter himself.

At one point the sheriff came in and joined our game for a few hands. His interest in us as strangers in town waned with an introduction from another of the players, who gave him a brief rundown of our professions as if he'd known us for a long time, never mind the acquaintance being but of short duration. It obviously doesn't hurt to play with the important men in town.

After the sheriff got up and left to continue his rounds, we played on for another hour or so, the same half dozen of us plus the dealer. Sure, we took a break here and there to stretch, refresh, and step out back to attend to business before continuing. We could get used to this kind of Saturday night. Maybe one day.

We finally agreed to play until midnight. It seemed fitting, given as to how the establishment had just sounded last call with a half hour to go. Five minutes later, though, the jovial atmosphere was disturbed by a disheveled young whelp followed by a lady of the night in her bloomers. From the looks and smell of them, they'd had way too much to drink and he had trouble holding his liquor. She nagged on about how he hadn't paid her. Well, Lord knows Kid and me have spent enough time with enough ladies to know you pay up first and enjoy after. This one sounded like he'd wanted one on the house.

So, before anyone could react, the young whelp started a scene with one of the ranchers at our table. They got loud. The young'un reached in front of the gent and grabbed a handful of money and threw it at the girl. She yelled something and stomped out. Meanwhile, the rancher stood and said to the whelp as to how he should get home and they'd talk there. Things escalated, and the sheriff returned. Kid and I stayed as calm as we could, but I could see his right hand at the ready, just in case. Our eyes met and I willed him to stay calm. After all, the sheriff didn't know us, had no beef with us, and had no reason to suspect us. But, wanted men always have to be on guard.

Just when the rancher had his whelp of a son calmed down and the man sat down to resume the game, the young'un pulled out a gun. He waved it around but a second in our direction before two shots were fired. Kid had his Colt in his hand, but rather than the steely gaze most fear, his eyes were wide in shock. And in the split second it took me and others to realize what had happened, mine were too.

The rancher who sat opposite me and two over from Kid lay forward on the table, a bullet in his back. The town doctor ran over and pronounced him dead. His own gun still in hand, the sheriff knelt over the whelp, a finger to his neck. He shook his head and sighed: his own aim had found its mark. However, spying my partner with gun in hand, the sheriff walked to him, motioning for the Colt. Kid handed it to him with mouth agape in confusion. Thinking it prudent to not give anyone any reason to suspect me, I left my hands in plain sight, although every fiber in me wanted to get the hell out of there.

The entire scene was unreal, to say the least. The confusion didn't last long, though, because the sheriff smelled the barrel of Kid's gun and handed it back to him. He did likewise with one other fella at the next table. Kid let out a breath and looked at me. We were, though, still in shock. Things being what they were, the sheriff ordered everyone out and the saloon closed.

We had trouble sleeping that night. The picture of the amiable rancher we'd played poker with for hours lying face down and shot in the back by his own son haunted us. What had caused the whelp to go off like that; whether there was some underlying, simmering something between them, we'll never know. He'd had too much to drink, that was obvious. But that he pulled a gun on his own father and didn't hesitate to shoot him in the back – that got to us. We, alleged hardened criminals who just happened in our heyday to give in to the larceny that stays mostly hidden in all of us, were shook to the core. Whether the drink made him do it or as some said, he really had zero regard for life, will remain a mystery.

Weary from too little sleep, we hauled ourselves down to the café the next morning for breakfast. The whole town felt different somehow. It was Sunday and most were in church. Sure, our folks had looked to the Good Book for comfort and made sure we were versed in it, too. But here, after years of ignoring how we were brought up, we were tempted to step inside as well.

Unable to shake what we had witnessed the night before, we rode out later that day. Through our whole outlaw past, we'd never seen anything like that. We'd had guns drawn on us, been shot at, tied up, in jail, and all that goes with thieving. All that, like it or not, went part and parcel with the lives we led. But that night, that was something once in a lifetime for us we never want to witness again.


End file.
